


Enobaria- The 62nd Hunger Games

by ThatLadyOfCastamere



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatLadyOfCastamere/pseuds/ThatLadyOfCastamere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Enobaria Marshall, the female District Two tribute who won the 62nd Annual  Hunger Games by ripping out the throat of another tribute with her teeth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enobaria- The 62nd Hunger Games

"Enobaria!" yells my mom, banging on my door. "Enobaria!" I ignore her, hoping she'll get the hint that I heard her, but she continues banging and shouting, getting louder and more frustrated. "Enobaria!" I manage to mumble something, vaguely. "Get up. It's the reaping today!" She almost sings. This highlights the main reason why I despise living in District 2: the Hunger Games, an annual game where twenty-three kids are slaughtered, is something we celebrate.

I quickly get up to avoid further fuss and pull on a plum velvet dress and a pair of flat gold pumps. I run my fingers through my dark frizzy hair then head down stairs. I'm astonished I don't get shouted at for not combing my hair properly or not wearing those silly six inch heels that are two sizes two small . Quite frankly, I don't understand why looking pretty is so important before the games; it's quite ironic really. It's not like the stylists will be prettying up twenty-three corpses in a few weeks.

I try my best to fake a smile as I sit down at the kitchen table next to my younger sister. I wait for the dreaded question she asks every year. "Are you going to volunteer?"

My mother chokes slightly on her porridge then stares in astonishment at my smug little sister as if it wasn't like her at all. I too glare at the little brat and nod. "You said you would last year, and the year before. I bet you won't,"

"Darcy, that's enough," Mom lectures.

"It's true though," Darcy grumbles, putting down her toast and slouching in her chair. I am somewhat comforted by the fact that I am not the only one in the district having to endure this conversation. I've always volunteered, I just never get picked. The escort always picks the two he/she likes the best. The two that stand out the most. It's usually the toughest looking boy and the prettiest girl. Again, having nice hair or sparkling eyes never helps you in the end.

I get up then head towards the door.

"Honey, you haven't finished your porridge," Mother wines.

"But I've heard it's nicer on the train," I reply. Both Darcy and Mother laugh hysterically. On my way out, I realise how ridiculous that sounded.  

 

I thank myself for not wearing those heels as I soon discover that running in the the flats is hard enough. I slip through the alleyway between my house and the one next to it. The alleyway leads to a small wood at the edge of the district.

When you reach the end of the wood, you come to a barbed wire fence that is meant to have electricity going through it. I discovered it didn't when my seven-year-old self crept through it, without the understanding of the whole district concept. How could I have known? My age and cluelessness didn't stop the peacekeepers from trying to shoot me.

 I stand intrigued by the fact that I could run now, if I wanted to. This time I would know what to do. I'd been contemplating doing this for a while. If it was any other day, I probably would have. But no. Instead, I was choosing to be a pawn like everyone else. I stand there for several minutes, contemplating the fact that this could be the last time I see this place. Oh well, maybe I could adventure beyond the fence in spirit form, if the worst came to the worst. No, not getting picked would be the worst 

 

 

 

In the porch, Mom quickly combs Darcy's long wavy hair and straightens her up before we get going. If she volunteers next year, she'll get picked without a doubt.

 We meet Dad (who was helping organise the event) at the overflowing square. He mouths "go for it" to me before all the children (including myself) are sorted like cattle into age and gender groups. I take my place in the section for seventeen-year-old girls. My parent's stand aside with Darcy, who stares in envy at the group of twelve-year-old girls where she will stand next year.

I begin to regret making such a big deal out of volunteering over the years in front of these people. Now I have to be reminded of how pathetic I am by girls that could be picked yet wouldn't last a minute in the games. A common mistake made by the escort. "Maybe this will be your year," a high-pitched voice snarls.

"Hopefully," I reply.

Before Jade can provoke me with anymore passive aggression, the clicking sound of the escort's ridiculous shoes is echo through the square. I feel like the only person who is dreading seeing the escort. I seriously don't understand why having too much time to spare is an excuse for making yourself look non-human.

This escort has really outdone herself, even on Capitol standards: her impossibly straight, orange hair reaches the backs of the knees. Her tan is almost the same colour. To top it all off, she wears a brown, leather bikini, decorated with chains, leaving nothing to the imagination. I can't believe they cheer her when she appears on the stage.

"Greetings, District Two! My name is Cherie Greenwood. Welcome to the Reaping of the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games." The crowd goes wild. Her stereotypical Capitol accent makes my skin crawl. "It's so nice to see so many eager young men and women that your district has to offer. Now let us take a moment to remember the history of Panem."

I pay no attention to the video. It just irritates me. I don't care if we are the Capitol's "lapdogs". If we really were, they wouldn't kill our children.

"And now, the moment we've been waiting for!" Everyone cheers. Jade nudges me and smiles. Cherie walks over to the sphere on the left that contains the names of every girl. She makes a fancy twirling movement with her manicured hand before picking out a piece of paper between her black, claw-like nails.

Strutting back to the center of the stage, she opens the paper.

"Clarissa Ferguson,"

A tiny twelve-year-old girl slowly makes her way to the stage. Everyone applauds. Cherie kneels down to meet her height. "Congratulations, Dear." Clarissa nervously chews her nails- the closest a District Two tribute will ever be to feeling like a tribute from Twelve. "Are you up for it? Or should we find a volunteer?" Clarissa nods. The whole crowd "awes". Clarissa scurries off stage like a frightened mouse.

"So," Cherie resumes. My throat turns dry. I really hadn't thought this through as much a should have done. How will she notice me? Through the screams of the idiotic girls behind screaming "pick me!" I hear Jade scream: "Go on then!"

The next thing I comprehend is I'm not in line, I'm on the ground, on the passage to the stage. Everyone is staring. Silence. My heart decides to freeze with tension. Before I can give Jade a black eye, I notice Cherie is also looking.

"I volunteer!" I announce , standing up and brushing the dirt off my dress.

"Come, come!" Cherie beckons me towards her. From this distance, she reminds me of a tropical stick insect.

While my heart feels like an ice cube, my face burns up like a wild fire; I hate to think of how red I must be. The walk to the stage is never ending. It is also (in my case) shameful. "That could have gone better," I vent to myself. I am careful not to trip on the stairs, as it seems I'm in that sort of mood. "What's your name, Dearie?"

"Enobaria Marshall," I mutter. This is the first time the crowd hesitates before applauding. Some people even stay silent.

"Now for the boys," bellows Cherie, trotting over to the sphere on the right.

"Jason Bedford." An overly confident fourteen-year-old boy struts his way forward, waving as he climbs up the steps. "So Jason. Are you up for it?"

"Definitely!" he replies in a voice two octaves deeper than his natural tone. Several boys who have lost their chances boo him jokingly, although they support him deep down. I try my best not to roll my eyes.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your tributes for the Sixty-Second Annual Hunger Games."

Jason grabs me by the wrist and pulls it upwards; waiting for an applause. "You haven't won yet," I have a burning desire to say. 

 Cherie ushers us off the stage and into the Justice building. I feel suddenly ashamed for wanting to skip the goodbyes.


End file.
